


the dragon's dagger

by theflyjar



Series: landmarks for my errors in your scars [1]
Category: C-Pop, EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ancient China, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Betrayal, Historical, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 10:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theflyjar/pseuds/theflyjar
Summary: Yixing doesn’t condemn the scroll but rolls it back up, ready to turn himself in to those who wish to capture him.





	the dragon's dagger

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags for any warnings!

The letter is beautifully inked onto the page. It’s a running cursive that trickles like water across the silk surface, beauty in appearance but damning in meaning. It’s the decree of Yixing’s capture, of him being taken prisoner by those who now proclaim themselves to be rulers. They are learned people, he assumes, given the writing, and Yixing wonders if that’s where his father’s first fault lay.  
            He believed these revolutionaries to be farmers and merchants whose money had gone to their heads, not the cultivated people of their, evidently, courtly ilk.

Yixing doesn’t condemn the scroll but rolls it back up, ready to turn himself in to those who wish to capture him. He’s not of much use, he supposes, as his talents lay in the visual and aural arts, not the ones of war. He is rushed around by servants who keep to his pace as he descends to the throne room. He thinks it will be easy, to silently bow and let himself be locked into a chamber to rot away for the rest of time. Or to be slaughtered by the sword that already bears the blood of his father’s throat and of his mother’s chest.

But, the moment of death comes is at the sight of the man who occupies the regal seat of Yixing’s now-dead older brother, the place of the heir apparent.

Yifan’s face is smeared with blood, his hair falling to his face from where it is usually so neatly tied up, and his eyes burn through Yixing.

In no moment of his life had Yixing ever considered Yifan’s father to be the one to steal the throne. The Wus have always been the most trusted companions of the Zhangs. And Yifan has always been Yixing’s most trusted companion in life, love, and his bed. But, with the blood of Yixing’s family and the soldiers who protected them smattered across his face, Yixing feels as if a mask has been removed from the façade of the man who was his darling.

He drops his eyes from where Yifan sits and raises his head defiantly to meet the gaze of Yifan’s father.

“And what do you wish of from me?”

“Not anything you’ve not already given my son before.” The affair of Yifan and Yixing is not quiet nor new news to the court, given that no one has truly ever tried to hide it, but the way Yifan’s father speaks of it leaves Yixing’s body feeling filthy. Violated. He does not wish for the murderer of his family to know of his intimacies. Nor insinuate that he would be willing to crawl into the bed of his lover’s father, simply because he’s placed himself on a throne that doesn’t truly belong to him.

“A heart cannot be given twice,” Yixing refutes, eyes upon Yifan, hoping to see some flicker of guilt spark. There is nothing and it stings right in Yixing’s chest, as if he were sliced open with the sword between Yifan’s fingers.

“I do not ask for your heart.”

“To have both my body and mind, you _must_ have my heart.” Yixing takes in a breath, not fearing challenging this false impression of a so-called emperor. “One cannot be extricated from the other, if your wish is possession.”

The smirk that rests upon the lips of Yifan’s father is ugly and twisted, his mere features churn Yixing’s stomach in revolt. Even seeing it in periphery, as Yixing is now, is sickening to him. “Do you admit that my son possesses you?”

Yifan drops his gaze from Yixing to his sword and the blood that dribbles down the blade to the tiled floor below. To anyone else it would read like guilt, but it’s something more. It’s a warning. The way Yixing’s head attaches to his neck hangs in the balance of his response to this one question, and that is the only clue Yifan gives.

Still, it’s enough for Yixing to conclude that if he is to die, it is with honest words on his lips.

 _“Yes,”_ he admits, glancing from his lover to the pitted eyes of the Wu patriarch.

A show is made of the drawing of the dagger that rests at Yifan’s father’s waist, the beautiful carved jade dragon hilt glimmering in the light of the throne chamber, and Yixing offers his throat to the man. Yixing flicks his eyes to Yifan, hoping and wishing that he would do something to stop this.

“If you dare touch that boy’s skin with your knife, you will not live long enough to even consider regretting it.”

That voice is not Yifan’s, but it’s equally as familiar to Yixing. It soothed him as a child and whispered motherly love to him only a few days prior, it’s stooped in protective fury and the rage of unconditional love.

Yifan’s mother moves out from the darkness cast by her son’s throne, her feet soundlessly taking her to stand, poised for attack, behind her own husband. Yixing has always known the love of Yifan’s mother, learning how to pluck the strings of a _konghou_ by following her delicately strong fingers and how to paint in the traditional scripts of their kingdom. In her hands is the blood drenched sword that Yifan had kept unsheathed, ready to be wielded again.

“Does your love for this boy truly outweigh your duty to your husband?”

No verbal reply is given, but the way Yifan’s mother slides the sword forward, to sit with its point dug into the back of her husband’s neck, speaks volumes in sentiment. She would betray her own allegiances to protect Yixing.

“I have let you use one of my sons as your puppet, I will not let you harm another.” It is in her calm firmness that true wrath lies. “I will always be a good mother before I am a good wife.”

The laughter that emanates from Yifan’s father and reverberates around the room has Yixing gulp as the dagger falls, returning to its home in its sheath. The sword isn’t withdrawn until Yixing steps back far enough to be out of lunging distance. There is nowhere for him to run, so he remains still, only moving his eyes to seek out Yifan once more. Fear grapples with him when he notes that Yifan is out of sight, gone from the heir’s throne and Yixing feels abandoned.

“Take the boy to be prepared,” Yifan’s father announces and hands grip around his arms, yanking him from large hall. Yixing fears for the life of Yifan’s mother but all she does is soundlessly motion apologies to him.

Yixing is taken to his own chambers again and soldiers have ransacked his things, with papers and inks and fine silks strewn across the floor. Most things are wrecked and ruined, torn up and trampled on, apart from one garment. Realisation dawns then, in those early morning hours. He struggles, kicking out and trying to free his arms, but so many hands restrain him that he barely has any control over his own movements.

He is stripped bare and redressed in beautifully embroidered fabrics, all largely translucent to leave him immodestly dressed. Only his most trusted servants and Yifan have seen him in such robes before. They are how Yixing dresses when Yifan returns to him after long periods apart, especially if Yifan has returned from war. The sight of Yixing in those robes was a manifestation of his gratitude towards Yifan willingly placing his life on the line to keep the Zhang kingdom in safety. It was his gift to the man he loves.

Now, he’d rather set himself aflame than feel those silks against his skin.

He wills himself not to cry, biting his cheeks and digging his nails into his palms, as he’s forced out of his chambers and heads to the direction of the emperor’s private courtyard. There are people, supporters of Wu’s revolt, stood to watch the princely son of the murdered emperor be led to his soul’s slaughter. Another cohort of soldiers heads their way, surrounding a hooded figure, they split and encircle those gripping to Yixing.

The touch on his skin, right around his waist, is light until something is pressed firmly there. In panic, Yixing stays rigid, and lets out no sound, but that group of soldiers dissipates, and the cloaked man is gone as if he had never existed at all. Yixing remains frozen up until he’s brought inside the chambers and his stomach turns, bile rising up his throat. It’s only calmed when he realises there is no one to receive him. He’s tossed onto the bed, left to sprawl awkwardly as something nicks at the skin of his hip. A few drops of blood spill and he places his hand to it, fearing having been stabbed, but instead, he finds something of stone lodged there.

Soldiers file out of the room when they realise Yixing will not move from where he has been thrown, and he only shifts himself when there are no more footsteps. He opens his robes to wipe up the blood with his fingers, and he fumbles to grip onto the dagger that tumbles out.

He would recognise the hilt anywhere. He designed this blade, crested with emblems of his own family name, as well as a motif of a fearsome dragon, a mark of safety for when the blade is wielded in war. Along the spine of one side is an engraving of his name, giving the weight of his princely position to the dagger’s owner, that any action this blade sees is an extension of himself.

On the reverse, it’s inscribed with the moniker: _The Prince’s Assassin._

The dragon dagger in his hands is the hidden blade of a protective warrior, one seen by no one other than himself, the craftsman, the blade’s victims, and the one who wields it.

He had given this knife to Yifan as a gift the first time Yifan was commanded into war, a talisman of Yixing’s well-wishes for battle and a symbol of his protective love. It is too big for his fingers when he tests the weight, but he knows he has the strength to grip it tightly enough to make a lethal blow.

He hides it swiftly beneath one of the pillows, within a finger’s breadth of his right hand. And he awaits the entrance of Yifan’s father. He does not wait for long, barely a bell passes before the human figure of mangled greed announces himself into the room. He grins at the sight of Yixing, taking delight in Yixing’s position and embarrassment, and Yixing stills his expression into one of steadfast neutrality.

“How humiliating for your family to see you degraded to this… A bed warmer for a traitor.”

Yixing does not move, barely shifting an inch, no matter how much he craves to grab at the dragon dagger hidden away, as Yifan’s father undresses and approaches him. He pulls at the tether of Yixing’s own robes until they fall apart, revealing him completely and Yixing’s hunger to kill matches that of the hunger for his body he sees in the malevolent eyes upon him.

He waits until the man has pushed his legs apart and settles between them, ready to shift his emotional violation to physical, and then he grabs at the hilt of the knife.

He casts it upwards, trembling too much to aim properly but willed by enough adrenaline to break the skin of a throat.

There’s no scream, only a twisted gargle, but it’s enough of a sound to have the bedchamber doors opening up. His hand is torn from the hilt and not even a second later, the long blade of a sword is beheading the man drowning in the blood that fills his lungs. Yixing trembles and reaches for the person who holds him, latching to them.

“You’re safe now,” Yifan’s voice soothes into his ear.

The clattering of a sword on the floor vibrates around the room and Yixing jumps in fright, twisting instinctively into Yifan and to look behind at the danger. But, Yifan’s mother is the only person there, and she is using the sleeves of her elegant robes to wipe away the blood spray from her face.

“That pig,” she mutters, picking up her sword once more. She turns her gaze towards Yixing and Yifan, smiling gently at them. She bows deeply, saying, “Emperor.”

Yixing glances back to Yifan to see how he receives it, but instead he is released from Yifan’s arms so Yifan can rest on the floor on his knees, bowing until his forehead touches the tiles. He repeats the title his mother had uttered, too, and Yixing feels as though he’s been disembowelled.

 _“Emperor?”_ Yixing questions, throat gripped by an unrecognisable weight.

“You are the remaining heir of the Zhang dynasty. You are the Emperor, Yixing.” She smiles gently at him when she has righted her posture, and Yixing gapes.

He knows she is correct, but he had not even considered such a turnout, given the revolt, with evident distaste for his family shown in the numbers who defied them.

“The tainting of your family name does not spread outside of the palace walls; the people know nothing of this murderous coup. You are their emperor.” It is Yifan’s voice in his ear, having silently moved to his side again. “The Zhangs are their leaders.”

Sorrow spikes through Yixing’s body in that moment, softening his muscles and forcing cries out of his throat. He rejects the way Yifan holds him, pushing his lover from his grips, and seeking refuge away from him.

“You _murdered_ my family.” Yixing searches Yifan’s face, his body language, for any kind of denial and he finds none. The scorn of betrayal burns deep within Yixing’s heart, mourning the loss of his kin and the barbarism of his lover. _“You’re_ as much of a traitor as _he_ is.”

“Do you think I bear their deaths lightly?” Yifan does not rage and nor does he roil, he leans in towards Yixing, to reach out to touch his cheek. “The emperor preferred to be killed by my sword in the knowledge you would be kept safe, that neither I nor my mother would ever let you meet death or slavery.”

“You should have just killed me, taken the throne for your family. My line is weakened by your violence.”

“If I did not act according to his behests, every single Zhang would have slaughtered, including you. Do you think I could truly want to harm you?” The way Yifan’s eyes search through Yixing’s strips his soul bare, and the answer is revealed. “All those nights I held you, and the ones you held me in return, do you sincerely believe I would give them up for a throne? For something I have never lusted for and loved in the same way I lust for and love you?”

Yixing shifts his gaze away, dropping it to the floor of the bedchamber.

“It was wrong of you to assume that we would share nights like that again after this.”

Yifan lets his hand fall, but still maintains closeness to Yixing, and Yixing thinks that this is his power now. Even his veiled remarks are understood like commands. And as much as he wishes to reach out and lay Yifan’s palm on his cheek again, to take solace in the company of one of the people he still has left to love, he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like he can.

“I only wished to protect you.”

“Then, that, too, was a mistake.” The words ache in Yixing’s chest as he says them, filling his eyes with tears that skew his entire vision of Yifan. “Please leave.”

“I shall return for my weapons.” He does not understand what Yixing is bidding for him to do, he does not know what Yixing means, so he spells it out.

“No, take them,” Yixing commands, “then leave this chamber, leave this palace, leave this kingdom. Traitors have no place at my side.”

Yifan hesitates, he wants to argue, and if this were any different situation, he would. Yixing knows Yifan better than anyone and he can tell there are words on the tip of his tongue, most likely ones that will soften Yixing’s heart and ones that will rationalise the deaths of his family. However, he does not want to hear them. He does not want to reconcile the deaths of loved ones with words.

It’s the power Yixing now wields that stills Yifan’s mouth and has him reaching down to take the dragon dagger from his own father’s throat. He glances to his mother once to nod at her, before taking his leave. He does not contest Yixing’s words, and part of Yixing wishes Yifan had fought – maybe to ignite the anger that has been swallowed up by the despair, or maybe to prove to Yixing that his love will not go wasted. But that doesn’t happen. Yifan has always respected Yixing’s power.

There is no loud quarrel, only footsteps fading to nothing.

 

◈◈◈

 

War is no place for a scholar outside of diplomacy. Weaponry and tactics of movement are not the strong suit of the ones who favour the arts and have _savoir faire._ It is the time of the skilled warrior and silent assassin, two things Yixing are not.

Yet, it is on a battlefield, where Yixing knows he has no place but must lead his kingdom’s soldiers from the front – and where they are just about to teeter into being overpowered – that he meets Yifan again.

There is a spear to Yixing’s throat, pressed up just close enough to draw blood, and Yixing stares in defiance into his enemy’s eyes. He accepts his death and thinks the only way to let his kingdom fall is with honour. They were outnumbered vastly from the start and the bravura of even his greatest soldiers may not have been enough, and Yixing hopes he can show fearlessness in the face of death. If only as a last stand, for his kingdom and for his bloodline. Whilst he is still better with a brush and better with a _konghou,_ Yixing knows valiance.

He does not anticipate the whistling of a dagger flying past his head, to land straight between the eyes of the warrior holding the spear. He is released as the soldier dies and he grabs the hilt of the blade, yanking it out of where it is lodged in his face, and he twists around to Yifan. He no longer wears the armour of the Zhang imperial family, instead it is black and embellished with a dragon. It’s the same dragon that curls around the handle of the dagger, the symbol of both Yifan and Yixing’s love for each other.

There are hundreds more soldiers around him, tipping the balance well into Yixing’s favour, and the battle exhaustion takes Yixing’s breath when Yifan approaches to bow down into the mud at Yixing’s feet.

“We are here to assist you, Emperor.” The soldiers around Yifan curl in formation to surround both he and Yixing, slaughtering any soldier not in the colours of the imperial army. “You have our allegiance.”

Words escape Yixing, defeat slipping away from him as Yifan’s men easily draw victory back. When the men step in closer, encircling the emperor with a more condensed line, Yifan unfurls from where he has bowed and crowds Yixing’s space. Gently strumming a thumb across Yixing’s cheek to lean in and whisper gently into his ear, “Let me protect you.”

And, with a weakened nod of Yixing’s head, he accepts Yifan’s offer. This reconciliation is not for his own heart, he tells himself, having mourned the loss of his family and lover for too long already, but for the kingdom. He knows in himself that, that is a lie, as he brings the bloodied blade of the knife in his hand to his mouth.

A single kiss is placed upon the dragon and Yixing hopes that Yifan understands.


End file.
